by Ellen Wood
Mr. Galloway gave his face another rub; the nightcap went higher and seemed to hang on only by its tassel, admitting the curls to full view. In spite of Roland’s despairing state, he took advantage of the occasion.
“I say, Mr. Galloway, your hair is not as luxuriant as it was.”
“It’s like me, then,” returned Mr. Galloway, whose mind was too much depressed to resent personal remarks. “What will become of us all without Arthur (putting out of sight for a moment the awful grief for himself) I cannot imagine. Look at his mother! He nearly supported the house: Mrs. Channing’s own income is but a trifle, and Tom can’t give much as yet. Look at me! What on earth I shall do without him at the office, never can be surmised!”
“My goodness!” cried modest Roland. “You’ll be almost as much put to it, sir, as you were when I went off to Port Natal.”
Mr. Galloway coughed. “Almost,” assented he, rather satirically. “Why, Roland Yorke,” he burst forth with impetuosity, “if you had been with me from then till now, and abandoned all your lazy tricks, and gone in for hard work, taking not a day’s holiday or an hour’s play, you could never have made yourself into half the capable and clever man that Arthur was.”
“Well, you see, Mr. Galloway, my talents don’t lie so much in the sticking to a desk as in knocking about,” good-humouredly avowed Roland. “But I do go in for hard work; I do indeed.”
“I hear you didn’t make a fortune at Port Natal, young man!”
Roland, open as ever, gave a short summary of what he did instead — starved, and did work as a labourer when he could get any to do, and drove pigs, and came back home with his coat out at elbows.
“Nobody need reproach me; it was worse for me than for them — not but what lots of people do. I tried my best; and I’m trying it still. It did me one service, Mr. Galloway — took my pride and my laziness out of me. But for the lessons of life I learnt at Port Natal, I should have continued a miserable humbug to the end, shirking work on my own score, and looking to other folks to keep me. I’m trying to do my best honestly, and to make my way. The returns are not grand yet, but such as they are I’m living on them, and they may get better. Rome was not built in a day. I went out to Port Natal to set good old Arthur right with the world; I couldn’t bring myself to publish the confession, that you know of, sir, while I stopped here. I thought to make my fortune also, a few millions, or so. I didn’t do it; it was a failure altogether, but it made a better man of me.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Mr. Galloway.
He watched the earnest eager face, bent towards him; he noted the genuine, truthful, serious tone the words were spoken in; and the conclusion he drew was that Roland might not be making an unjustifiable boast. It seemed incredible though, taking into recollection his former experience of that gentleman.
“And when I’ve got on, so as to make a couple of hundred a year or so, I am going to get married, Mr. Galloway.”
“In — deed!” exclaimed Mr. Galloway, staring very much. “Is the lady fixed upon?”
“Well, yes; and I don’t mind telling you, if you’ll keep the secret and not repeat it up and down the town: I don’t fancy she’d like it to be talked of yet. It’s Annabel.”
“Annabel Channing!” uttered Mr. Galloway, in dubious surprise. “Has she said she’ll have you?”
“I’m not sure that she has said it. She means it.”
“Why she — she is one of the best and sweetest girls living; she might marry almost anybody; she might nearly get a lord,” burst forth Mr. Galloway, with a touch of his former gossiping propensity.
Roland’s eyes sparkled. “So she might, sir. But she’ll wait for me. And she does not expect riches, either; but will put her shoulder to the wheel with me and be content to work and help until riches come.” Mr. Galloway gave a sniff of disbelief. He might be pardoned if he treated this in his own mind as a simple delusion on Roland’s part. He liked Annabel nearly as well as he had liked Arthur; and he looked upon Mr. Roland as a wandering knight-errant, not much likely to do any good for himself or others. Roland rose. —
“I must be off,” he said. “I’ve got my mother to see. Well, this is a pill — to find you’ve no clue to give me. Hamish said it would be so.”
“I hear Hamish Charming is ill?”
“He is not ill, that I know of. He looks it: a puff of wind you’d say would blow him away.”
“Disappointed in his book?”
“Well, I suppose so. It’s an awful sin, though, for it to have been written down — whoever did it.”
“I should call it a swindle,” corrected Mr. Galloway. “A bare-faced, swindling injustice. The public ought to be put right, if there were any way of doing it.”
“Did you read the book, Mr. Galloway?”
“Yes; and then I went forthwith out and bought it. And I read Gerald’s.”
“That was a beauty, wasn’t it?” cried sarcastic Roland.
“Without paint,” pursued Mr. Galloway, in the same strain. “It was just worth throwing on the fire leaf by leaf, that’s my opinion of Gerald’s book. But it got the reviews, Roland.”
“And be shot to it! We can’t understand the riddle up in London, sir.”
“I’m sure we can’t down here,” emphatically repeated Mr. Galloway. “Well, good night: I’m not sorry to have seen you. When are you going back?”
“To-morrow. And I’d rather have gone a hundred miles the other way than come near Helstonleigh. I shall take care to go and see nobody here, except Mrs. Channing. If — —”
“You must not speak of Arthur to Mrs. Channing,” interrupted the proctor.
“Not speak of him!”
“She knows nothing of his loss: it has been kept from her. She thinks he is in Paris with Charles.
In her weak state of health she would hardly stand the prolonged suspense.”
“It’s a good thing you told me,” said Roland, heartily. “I hope I shan’t let it out. Good night, sir. I must not forget this, though,” he added, turning to take up the parcel. “It has got a clean shirt and collar in it.”
“Where are you going to sleep?”
Roland paused. Until that moment the thought had never struck him where he was to sleep.
“I dare say they can give me a shake-down at the mother’s. The hearth-rug will do: I’m not particular. I’d used to go in for a feather bed and two pillows. My goodness! what a selfish young lunatic I was!”
“If they can’t, perhaps we can give you a shakedown here,” said Mr. Galloway. “But don’t you ring the house down if you come back.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Roland, gratefully. “I wonder all you old friends are so good to me.”
He clattered down in a commotion, and found himself in the Boundaries. When he passed through them ten minutes before, he was bearing on too fiercely to Mr. Galloway’s to take notice of a single feature. Time had been when Roland would not have cared for old memories. They came crowding upon him now: the dear life associations, the events and interests of his boyhood, like fresh green resting-places ‘mid a sandy desert. The ringing out of the cathedral clock, telling the three-quarters past ten, helped the delusion. Opposite to him rose the time-honoured edifice, worn by the defacing hand of centuries. Renovation had been going on for a long while; the pinnacles were new; old buildings around, that formerly partially obscured it, had been removed, and it stood out to view as Roland had never before seen it. It was a bright night; the moon shone as clearly as it had done on that early March night which ushered in the commencing prologue of this story. It brought out the fret-work of the dear old cathedral; it lightened up the gables of the quaint houses of the Boundaries, all sizes and shapes in architecture; it glittered on the level grass enclosed by the broad gravel walks, which the stately dames of the still more stately church dignitaries once cared to pace. But where were the tall old elm-trees — through whose foliage the moonbeams ought to have glittered, but did not? Where were the rooks that used to make the
ir home in them, wiling the poor college boys, at their Latin and Greek hard by, with the friendly chorus of caws? Gone. Roland looked up, eyes and mouth alike opening with amazement, and marvelled. A poor apology for the trees was indeed left; but topped and lopped to discredit. The branches, towering and spreading in their might, had been removed, and the homeless rooks driven away, wanderers.
“It’s nothing but sacrilege,” spoke bold Roland, when he had done staring. “For certain it’ll bring nobody good luck.”
He could not resist crossing the Boundaries to the little iron gate admitting to the cloisters. It would not admit him to-night: the cloister porter, successor to Mr. John Ketch of cantankerous memory, had locked it hours ago, and had the key safely hung up by his bed-side in his lodge. This was the gate through which poor Charley Channing had gone, innocently confiding, to be frightened all but to death, that memorable night in the annals of the college school. Charley, who was now a flourishing young clerk in India (at the present moment supposed to be enjoying Paris), and likely to rise to fame and fortune, health permitting. Many a time and oft, had Roland himself dashed through the gate, surplice on arm, in a white heat of fear lest he should be marked “late.” How the shouts of the boys used to echo along the vaulted roofs of the cloisters! How they seemed to echo in the heart of Roland now! Times had changed. Things had changed. He had changed. A new set of boys filled the school: some of the clergy were fresh in the cathedral. The bishop, gone to his account, had been replaced by a better: a once great and good preacher, who was wont in times long gone by to fill the cathedral with his hearers of jostling crowds, had followed him. In Mr. Roland’s own family, and in that of one with whom they had been very intimately associated, there were changes. George Yorke was no more; Gerald had risen to be a great man; he, Roland, had fallen, and was of no account in the world. Mr. Channing had died; Hamish was dying —
How came that last thought to steal into the mind of Roland Yorke? He did not know. It had never occurred to him before: why should it have done so now? Ah, he might ask himself the question, but he could not answer it. Buried in reflections of the past and present, one leading on to another, it had followed in as if consecutively, arising Roland knew not whence, and startling him to terror. He shook himself in a sort of fright; his pulse grew quick, his face hot.
“I do think I must have been in a dream,” debated Roland, “or else moonstruck. Sunny Hamish! as if the world could afford to lose him! Nobody but a donkey whose brains had been knocked out of him at Port Natal, would get such wicked fancies.”
He went back at full gallop, turned the corner, and looked out for the windows of his mother’s house. They were not difficult to be been, for in every one of them shone a blaze of light. The sweet white radiance of the moon, with its beauteous softness, never to be matched by earthly invention, was quite eclipsed in the garish red of the flaming windows. Lady Augusta Yorke had an assembly — as was plain enough by the signs.
“Was ever the like bother known!” spoke Roland aloud, momentarily halting in the quiet spot. “She’s got all the world and his wife there. And I didn’t want a soul to know that I was at Helstonleigh!”
He took his resolution at once, ran on, and made for a small side door. A smart maid, in a flounced gown and no cap to make mention of, stood at it, flirting with a footman from one of the waiting carriages. Roland went in head foremost, saying nothing, passing swiftly through tortuous passages and up the stairs. The girl naturally took him for a robber, or some such evil character, and stood agape with wonder. But she did not want for courage, and went after him. He had made his way to what used to be his sisters’ school-room in Miss Charming’s time; the open door displayed a table temptingly set out with light refreshments, and nobody was in it. When the maid got there, Roland, his hat on a chair and parcel on the floor, was devouring the sandwiches.
“Why, what on earth!” she began. “My patience! who are you, sir? How dare you?”
“Who am I?” said Roland, his mouth nearly too full to answer. “You just go and fetch Lady Augusta here. Say a gentleman wants to see her. Tell her privately, mind.”
The girl, in sheer amazement, did as she was bid: whispering her own comments to her mistress.
“I’d be aware of him, my lady, if I were you, please. It might be a maniac. I’m sure the way he’s gobbling up the victuals don’t look like nothing else.”
Lady Augusta Yorke, slightly fluttered, took the precaution to draw with her her youngest son, Harry, a stalwart King’s Scholar of seventeen. Advancing dubiously to the interview, she took a peep in, and saw the intruder, a great tall fellow, whose back was towards her, swallowing down big table-spoonfuls of custard. The sight aroused Lady Augusta’s anger: there’d be a famine; there’d be nothing left for her hungry guests. In, she burst, something after Roland’s own fashion, words of reproach on her tongue, threats of the police. Harry gazed in doubt; the maid brought up the rear.
Roland turned, full of affection, dropped the spoon into the custard-dish, and flew to embrace her.
“How are you, mother, darling? It’s only me.”
And the Lady Augusta Yorke, between surprise at the meeting, a little joy, and vexation on the score of her diminishing supper, was somewhat overwhelmed, and sunk into a chair in screaming hysterics.
CHAPTER XXXII.
In the Cathedral.
THE college bell was tolling for morning prayers: and the Helstonleigh College boys were coming up in groups and disappearing within the little cloister gate, with their white surplices on their arms, just as Roland Yorke had seen them in his reminiscential visions the previous night. It was the first of November: a saints day; and a great one, as everybody knows; consequently the school had holiday, and the king’s scholars attended Divine service.
Roland was amidst them, having come out after breakfast to give as he said a “look round.” The morning was well on when he awoke up from the couch prepared for him at Lady Augusta’s — a soft bed with charming pillows, and not a temporary shakedown on the hearth-rug. They had sat up late the previous night, after Lady Augusta’s guests had left, talking of old times and new ones. Roland freely confessed his penniless state, his present mode of living, with its shifts and drawbacks, the pound a week that Mrs. Jones made do for all, the brushing of his own clothes, the sometimes blacking of his own boots: which sent his mother into a fit of reproachful sobs. In his sanguine open-heartedness he enlarged upon the fortune that was sure to be his some time (“a few hundreds a-year and a house of his own”), and made her and his two sisters the most liberal promises on the strength of it. Caroline Yorke turned from him: he had lost caste in her eyes. Fanny, with her sweet voice and gentle smile, whispered him to work on bravely, never to fear. The two girls were essentially different. Constance Channing had done her utmost with them both: they had gone to Hazeldon with her when she became William Yorke’s wife; but her patient training had borne different fruit.
Roland dashed first of all into Mr. Galloway’s, to ask if he had news of Arthur. No, none, Mr. Galloway answered with a groan, and it “would surely be the death of him.” As Roland left the proctor’s house, he saw the college boys flocking into the cloisters, and he went with them. Renovation seemed to be going on everywhere; beauty had succeeded dilapidations, and the old cathedral might well raise her head proudly now. But Roland did wonder when the improvements and the work would be finished; they had been going on as long as he could remember.
But the cloisters had not moved or changed their form, and Roland lost himself in the days of the past. One of the prebendaries, a fresh one since Roland’s time, was turning into the chapter-house; Roland, positively from old associations, snatched off his hat to him. In imagination he was king’s scholar again, existing in mortal dread, when in those cloisters, of the Dean and Chapter.
“I say — you,” said he, seizing hold of a big boy, who had his surplice flung across his shoulder in the most untidy and crumpled fashion possible, “show me Joe Je
nkins’s grave.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the boy, wondering what fine imperative gentleman had got amidst them, and speaking civilly, lest it might be a connection of some one of the prebendaries. “It’s round on the other side.”
Running along to the end of the north cloister, near to the famous grave-stone “Miserrimus,” near to the spot where a ghost had once appeared to Charles Channing, he pointed to an obscure corner of the green grave-yard, which the cloisters enclosed. Many and many a time had Roland perched himself on those dilapidated old mullioned window-frames in the days gone by.
“It’s there,” said the boy. “Old Ketch, the cloister porter, lies on this side him.”
“Oh, Ketch does, does he! I wonder whose doings that was! It’s a shame to have placed him, a cross-grained old wretch, side by side with poor Jenkins.”
“Jenkins was cross-grained too, for the matter of that,” cried the boy. “He was always asking the fellows for a tip to buy baccy, and grumbling if they did not give it.”
Roland stared indignantly. “Jenkins was! Why, what are you talking of? Jenkins never smoked.”
“Oh, didn’t he, though! Why, he died smoking; he was smoking always. Pretty well, that, for an old one of seventy-six.”
“I’m not talking of old Jenkins,” cried Roland. “Who wants to know about him? — what a senseless fellow you are! It’s young Jenkins. Joe: who was at Galloway’s.”
“Oh, him! He was buried in front, not here. I can’t go round to show you, sir, for time’s up.”
The boy took to his heels, as schoolboys only can take to them, and Roland heard him rattle up the steps of the college hall to join his comrades. Propped against the frame-work, his memory lost itself in many things; and the minutes passed unheeded by. The procession of the king’s scholars aroused him. They filed along the cloisters from the college hall, two and two, in their surplices and trenchers, his brother Harry, one of the seniors, nearly the last of them. When they had disappeared, Roland ran round to the front grave-yard. Between the cathedral gates and those leading to the palace, stood a black-robed verger, with his silver mace, awaiting the appearance of the Dean. Roland accosted the man and asked him which was Joe Jenkins’s grave.